


together we're alone

by marcel



Series: couch party verse [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Frottage, Hair-pulling, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Mike McCormick Is His Own Warning, Minor Violence, non-magical grad school au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:07:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22723675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcel/pseuds/marcel
Summary: "I'm glad you're having fun." Quentin pauses, curling up and trying to ignore the sudden butterflies in his stomach. "I, um. I miss you."There's another loud crash in the background as he says it, definitely something breaking this time - Quentin is pretty sure he hears Margo laughing, and then something muffled before Eliot returns. "Wait, let me— hold on—" After a few more muffled seconds, the party noise cuts off so abruptly that Quentin thinks the call might have dropped. "Okay," Eliot sighs, sounding a little breathless. "I'm outside now. Jesus, this balcony is bigger than our living room. What did you say?"Quentin takes a breath and— lets it out again, too nervous to repeat it. Eliot probably won't want to hear him get sentimental when he's having a good time, anyway. "Nothing. Um, tell Margo I said hi."or: Quentin is pretty sure he and Eliot are on the same page about their whole not-really-dating thing, but it's probably a good idea to make sure, right?
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: couch party verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627555
Comments: 46
Kudos: 311





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> well 1 month ago this was 2 paragraphs at the bottom of the original fic gdoc and now it's somehow longer than the first one but it's fine! i wrote like 10k in a week it's fine.  
> anyway happy valentine's day!!!! this is the one about miscommunication and honesty and mike being terrible! it's also the one where i reveal myself as a hurt/comfort fiend so i hope everyone else lives for that as much as i do. i will never change i will never improve etc
> 
> thank you to everyone who read the first one, and everyone who was so welcoming about it!! i am truly so honoured and just happy to be here!! also thank you becca for proofreading my terrible autocorrect mistakes, and thank you nicole for, u know, everything. it is, once again, all for u.
> 
> wow things sure do happen. i can't believe how many times i listened to sicko mode while writing this

Back in October, Quentin could go entire shifts in the library only needing one hand to count the amount of students coming up to the front desk, but in the final week before winter break, exams and due dates seem to have crept up on everyone. It's not exactly bustling, or even crowded, but there are enough requests to fill and tasks piling up that it feels busy. On the last day the library is open before winter break officially starts, it’s a bit calmer, most of the visitors being people returning books before they head home. Still, there are some unfortunate cases of frazzled students frantically looking for printed sources to cite in papers due in less than twelve hours, which Alice seems to take personal offense to.

She glares across the front desk at a table of four guys who each have a stack of books they're poring over. "They know we close at six, right?"

Quentin follows her gaze and grimaces. "Hopefully? Giving them a two hour warning might be a bit much, though."

Alice huffs, coming around the desk to join him in the tiny office area. "If they leave any trash behind I'm banning them. I can't wait for January when all these people go back to procrastinating and forgetting the library exists."

Having only finished and handed in his own final readings the day before, Quentin hums noncommittally and ducks down to dig in a lower drawer for another roll of book tape. He's been trying all week to get through a stack of books in need of repair - mostly just spine damage and cover creases, but a couple of them are near falling apart, like the unfortunate Philosophy textbook he's currently working on, which looks kind of like someone dropped it down a flight of stairs.

“Is that literary theory journal done?” Alice asks when he emerges. “There’s a stressed-out third year waiting for it in the archives.”

Quentin digs it out of his finished pile and hands it over. “If it’s the same girl who ripped half the cover off, can you fine her?”

“I’ll put a donation form between the pages,” Alice says with a smile.

She turns to go, but her path is blocked by Eliot returning with the empty book cart. He steps out of her way and lets the cart roll the final few feet by itself, but it doesn’t quite make it past the desk. Quentin nudges it the rest of the way with his foot before Alice can look too unimpressed.

“The psych shelves might not be pretty, but they are alphabetized,” Eliot reports, dusting himself off with a sigh. “Although I'm sure it’ll only last about fifteen minutes, going by the look of the guy camped out there.”

Alice sends a preemptive glare toward the sciences section. “Okay, thanks. You’re off now, right?”

"I am," Eliot confirms, sweeping his coat and scarf off the back of the chair he'd left them on, "and in twelve hours I will be landing in LA with Margo, where I will not think about books at all."

"Great," Alice says flatly, and turns to Quentin instead. "I have to find whoever needed this journal. Can you watch the front desk for a few minutes?"

She disappears before he can do much more than flash a thumbs-up. Eliot snickers, shaking his head as he pulls his coat on. "I think she's really warming up to me."

Quentin laughs too, turning his chair around to face him. "Maybe next year." 

It’s been a week since the party but they haven’t had time to hang out again, even at work - having things to do for once has meant Quentin hasn’t been able to join him for their regular reshelving duties. At least Eliot is nothing if not dedicated to winking at him from across the library, as he’s already demonstrated a few times today.

Quentin watches him straighten out his sleeves for a few seconds before he realizes he’s staring, and makes himself look away. "So, um, LA? What are you guys' plans?"

"I haven't looked at the itinerary yet," Eliot admits. "Margo has some old friends she promised to visit, and I think her dad has us on some corporate Christmas party guestlist? But honestly, as long as there's a mimosa within arm's reach, I'm sure I can handle whatever." He pauses to put his scarf down, fixing his coat collar where it's folded over. "What about you, where are you headed for break?"

"Back to Jersey, with Julia," Quentin tells him, slowly turning his chair back and forth. "My dad is coming to pick us up tomorrow. Not quite the same as three weeks of partying in California, but, you know." He shrugs. "Being home is nice."

"Hey, there's no law against having mimosas in New Jersey," Eliot points out. He finishes smoothing out his coat and moves closer to Quentin's desk, his expression smoothing suspiciously into nonchalance. "Speaking of partying - I don't suppose you've heard the latest?"

Quentin stops swivelling around and frowns up at him. "The latest what?"

"The hot end-of-term goss," Eliot says, like it's obvious. He leans down, bracing his elbow on the desk, and lowers his voice like he's telling a secret. "Rumour is, Eliot Waugh ditched his own party to take a boy upstairs to his room. And then kept him there all night."

It's true, technically, even if the actual event involved much more sleeping than Eliot's salacious tone implies, but that doesn't stop Quentin from flushing pink. "So, people are, um, talking about it?" he manages to ask.

Eliot grins at him. "A bit, yeah."

Something tells Quentin that even _a bit_ is more than he'd prefer - although, some part of him gets a little thrill from the idea that people all across campus are talking about them, together. "Um," he starts, pushing that thought away. "Why?"

"Because some of us live for the drama, Quentin," Eliot says with a sigh. "Actually, I'm on your side with this one. It's arguably the tamest thing I've ever made headlines for." He straightens up again, leaning his hip against the desk instead and crossing his arms. "Anyway, it's nothing to worry about. I just figured you should know, in case anyone starts giving you jealous looks."

Quentin snorts. "Will they even know who I am?"

"I don't know, but word travels fast, especially when it's about who's potentially banging the biggest former-hot-mess on campus," Eliot says, flashing him a grin. "Plus, someone might try to warn you off."

"Oh, good." Quentin rolls his eyes, turning back to the half-repaired book on his desk. "I have a ton of experience with getting bullied. I think I can handle it."

"No, I meant that they might think you're—" Eliot pauses, seeming to belatedly register what Quentin said. "You got bullied?"

"Yeah, of course. Super nerd, remember?" He places a piece of tape and smooths out the edges, then flips to the back cover. "Julia gave this one kid a black eye in sixth grade, and it wasn't so bad after that. Anyway, they might think I'm what?"

"My next fling," Eliot says slowly, still a little thrown. "I had what one might call a reputation last year. But the— Listen. Q." He catches Quentin's hand before he can reach for the tape roll again, giving him a serious look. "If anyone actually bothers you about it, tell me."

Quentin nods carefully. "Uh, sure, but I don't think you can get away with fighting anyone at school once you're, like, an adult."

"There are other ways to get even," Eliot assures him, patting his hand before letting go. "In undergrad, Margo was incredible at getting douchebags suspended the second they sent an unsolicited dick pic. I'm sure that skill can be repurposed.”

“I don’t think it’ll come to that,” Quentin snickers, then pauses. “Am I, though?”

"Are you what?"

"Your next… fling, or whatever." He means it to be a joke, but realizes halfway through that he actually would like to know - they haven't talked much about this, whatever _this_ is. Eliot looks a little surprised but seems to give it real thought, fixing him with a long look that Quentin makes himself hold.

"No," he says after a few seconds, still looking thoughtful. "You're something different."

"...Oh." Quentin isn't sure what that means, exactly, but before he can ask, Eliot is already moving away to the other side of the desk. 

"When are you off today?" he asks, patting down his pockets as he does a final sweep of the office.

Quentin blinks, thrown off by the topic change. "Uh— five, I think?" He gestures at the pile of damaged books. "I promised Alice I'd finish fixing these before I go, so. Whenever that's done."

He could swear Eliot looks almost disappointed, but it only lasts a second. "Well, Margo's waiting," he says. "I'll let you get back to it. Merry Christmas, happy new year, all that."

"You, too." Quentin can't help frowning - this is the last time they'll see each other for weeks, and he didn't really want to do his goodbyes at work. "I'll... see you in January, I guess."

“Oh, Q,” Eliot sighs, laughing a little. “I know my presence is a blessing difficult to go without, but it's not like we won't be able to talk. I'll text you when we land, if you want." He waits until Quentin gives a half-hearted nod before he starts to back up towards the door. “Have a good break.”

"Bye." Quentin watches him cross the lobby and push through the doors, then sighs, shaking his head. He should probably try to hold off getting wistful until they're in separate timezones, at the very least. 

He tries his best to focus on the book repairs again, but only manages to move one more to the finished pile before he notices Eliot's scarf still draped over the edge of the desk where he'd put it down. He smiles and rolls his chair over to pick it up, running the soft gold wool between his fingers. He figures he can take it with him when he leaves, rather than let it end up in the lost-and-found. Eliot still has the hoodie Quentin left at his house, after all, and having Eliot's scarf in return seems fair. 

He's not sure where Accidental Accessory Sharing falls on the intimacy scale, or if that's even something he should be reading into - they're not exactly dating, unless eating pizza in bed and kissing a few times (not that Quentin is keeping track) counts. With their usual alone time in the library being taken up by actual work, there hasn't been much opportunity for Quentin to ask Eliot his opinion, either.

It's not a huge deal, but going into winter break still unsure about whether or not they're _a thing_ doesn't exactly put his mind to rest. And yeah, maybe Quentin has a vague fantasy about kissing Eliot in the stacks that hasn't come to fruition yet, and maybe he's a little bit mad about it, but that's entirely beside the point.

Maybe he can try to make time during the break to mention it to Eliot, but it might be better to wait until they can talk face-to-face. Both options seem equally daunting when he has no idea how to bring it up.

He's drawn out of his thoughts by someone approaching the front desk. Hoping it wasn't too obvious just how zoned out he was, he drapes Eliot's scarf around his neck before heading over. "Can I help you?"

The guy waiting at the desk smiles politely. "Hey, just wondering if Eliot's around."

Usually people only ask for Alice, since she's the one who knows where everything is, but maybe Eliot has helped this guy before. "He's not in right now," Quentin tells him, frowning. "Was he supposed to help you find something? I can try—"

"No, it's fine," the guy sighs, cutting him off. "Can you leave him a message? Tell him Mike came by."

Quentin pauses with one hand halfway to the sticky notes. He knows, rationally, that there are probably loads of students on campus named Mike, but the only one he knows of that also knows Eliot is… bad news, to say the least. He probably shouldn't jump to conclusions, but he can't help feeling a little wary. Mike must see it in his face, because he gives Quentin a confused once over and then - _sneers_ , the change in expression so abrupt it catches Quentin off guard.

"Oh, that's a bad look," he says, sounding almost pitying.

Quentin blinks at him in confusion. "I'm… sorry, what?"

"Not for you, for Eliot," Mike explains, gesturing at the scarf around Quentin's neck. "Dressing you up in his clothes already, huh?"

So it is bad news Mike, then. Quentin actively tries not to grimace. "That's not—"

"You must be Quentin," Mike cuts him off again, leaning on the desk. "You were at the party last week, right? When Eliot told me he had someone upstairs, I thought he was kidding, but I guess not." He drags his eyes over Quentin a second time, leering. "You're not really the rebound I expected, though."

"Okay," Quentin says slowly, not sure if he should be offended on his own behalf or Eliot's. "Do you actually need anything, or...?"

"Hey, come on. We're on the same side, here," Mike laughs. "You can't tell me you haven't noticed Eliot's got issues." He leans in further, like they're sharing a fun secret. "What's he told you about me?"

Quentin bristles. "Nothing. He said you broke up."

Mike shrugs that off. "Did he tell you why? Or what he did after?" When Quentin doesn't respond, he laughs again. "Of course not. I'm not surprised he doesn't want you to know. It wasn't pretty."

"It's none of my business," Quentin grits out.

"It will be when he gets bored of pretending to be an altar boy, or whatever he's playing at now." Mike gives him a sympathetic look. "You don't know him like I do. I could tell you some real horror stories."

Quentin sets his jaw, outrage and protectiveness boiling over inside him. He's pretty sure Mike is trying to scare him, but every word just makes Quentin more sure that he wants to shield Eliot from this, and from everything else, whether they're dating or not. Nobody gets to talk about Eliot like this around him. "I think you should leave," he says, hands fisted at his sides.

"Why? You think I'm lying?" Mike asks, incredulous. "Fine, ask him yourself what happened last summer. I just thought as his new boy of the week, you might want to know what you signed up for."

"Is there a problem here?" Alice reappears in the office, her brow arched dangerously as she heads over to them, and Mike suddenly looks a bit less smug. She comes to Quentin's side, eyes flicking down to his clenched fists. "Do I need to call security?"

"No," Mike grunts, pushing off the desk. "We're done."

He knocks over a cardboard display stand on his way out, scattering flyers all over the floor. Quentin huffs and goes over to clean up the mess.

"Are you okay?" Alice asks, following him after a moment and kneeling down to help. "Who was that?"

"Some asshole trying to cause problems," Quentin grumbles. "I'm fine, just. Mad."

"What did he want with you?"

"I don't know. He was looking for Eliot."

Alice frowns. "I'm glad he left earlier, then."

"Me too," Quentin sighs. He remembers Eliot saying he hoped Quentin and Mike would never meet, and now after experiencing him firsthand, Quentin can't say he would wish that upon anybody.

Together he and Alice right the display stand and replace all the non-crumpled flyers, then head back to the office. When Quentin moves toward his desk, Alice catches his arm. "What are you doing?"

He blinks at her and gestures to his pile of untouched book repairs. "I was going to, um, finish these?"

Alice gives him a long look, then shakes her head. "Just leave it. You can pick it up in January."

"Oh." Going home a little early does sound nice, especially now. "Are you sure?"

"It's been a long day," Alice says with a nod. "I can handle closing. I'm better at kicking people out, anyway."

Quentin has to admit she's right about that. "Okay," he sighs, losing some of the tension in his shoulders. "Thanks, Alice."

She pats his arm and starts to leave, getting all the way past the front desk before Quentin remembers that this is her final shift, too. "Um— have a good Christmas."

Alice looks back at him and smiles. "You, too," she calls, then disappears into the shelves again.

Quentin fixes the repair pile into as neat a stack as he can manage, puts the finished ones on the cart, and then digs out his coat and bag from under the desk. He takes a second to loop Eliot's scarf around his neck again, thinking very hard about flipping Mike off as he does, and heads to the front doors with a sigh. He's ready to go home and finish packing and fall into bed to sleep off the rest of his annoyance.

When he pushes through the library doors, he's surprised to find Eliot on the steps outside, pacing back and forth with a cigarette in his hand. Eliot doesn't seem to have noticed him, so Quentin watches him for a few seconds, wondering why he's still here after almost an hour instead of at home with Margo. Could he have been waiting outside for Quentin to finish?

The thought makes him smile, even if it is ridiculous. He calls out to Eliot, who startles but seems glad to see him. "I thought you had a plane to catch," Quentin says, skipping down the steps to join him, but when he gets closer he can see that Eliot looks distracted and shaky. "Hey, are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Eliot says with a thin, unconvincing smile. "I just wanted to…" He trails off, seeming to lose his train of thought, then shakes his head, shifting on his feet like he can't keep still. "Sorry, I— I can't really—"

Quentin steps closer, concerned. "Eliot?"

He takes a long drag on his cigarette before responding. "I saw Mike," he says tightly.

"Just now?" Quentin's stomach drops. If Eliot was waiting outside, Mike must have run right into him. "What did he— are you okay?"

"More or less," Eliot sighs, the smoke drifting away in clouds. "I just… wasn't expecting to see him, I guess. He seems to think that if he calls me 'baby' enough times, he can undo six months of bullshit, which is great." He takes another drag and lets it out before giving Quentin another thin smile. "He said you told him to fuck off."

"I kind of did," Quentin admits. "Alice more so than me, honestly. But he was being an asshole."

"That tracks," Eliot says, wry. "What did he say to you?"

Quentin huffs, anger rising as soon as he thinks about it. "He was just— going on and on about what a terrible time he had while you were together," he grumbles. "Whatever he thinks you did to him, he definitely deserved it."

Eliot laughs weakly. "Probably, yeah."

He pauses like he's waiting for him to say more, but looks away when Quentin tries to catch his eye. "Anything else?"

Quentin hesitates, watching Eliot flick ash off the end of the cigarette. "He… mentioned that something happened afterwards, after you broke up. He didn't explain what, he just said I should ask you."

Eliot nods, sighing like he's been expecting this. "Okay, well. Are you asking?"

"I-I don't know," Quentin says warily. Why does Eliot look like he's bracing himself? "Do you want me to ask?"

"Honestly? No," Eliot admits. "But if I don't tell you now, I might never work up the nerve again." 

Quentin can't imagine what could possibly have Eliot so nervous and torn, but whatever it is, he knows he wants to help. If listening is all he can do, so be it.

"Okay," he says, and when Eliot looks up, he meets his gaze steadily. "I'm here. Tell me."

For all Eliot seemed like he was resigned to this, it still takes him a long few seconds to finally take a deep breath and start talking. "Okay, for… for context, Mike and I started dating at the beginning of spring term. He was different from the guys I'd been hooking up with, serious and put together, doing his PhD, and… he was nice," Eliot sighs, like even just remembering it makes him tired. "To me, at least. And he was really good at making me not care about anyone else."

Quentin nods along, already fighting the urge to curl himself defensively around Eliot. He does his best to keep his hands to himself and look reassuring.

"He didn't like Margo, which should have been a red flag," Eliot goes on, staring down at his still-burning cigarette, "but I… I wanted to feel… wanted. And he was offering, so." He shrugs a little and clears his throat. "Anyway, it was good for a while, and then it… wasn't, and then that lasted a while too, until he was so far from the person he started as that I could finally let myself admit I wanted out." 

"So you broke up," Quentin can't help filling in.

"Eventually, yeah," Eliot says slowly. "What actually sparked the final fight was— he was trying to convince me to move in with him, but I didn't want to leave Margo. We fought about more than just that, obviously, but it was… it was the first time I really point-blank refused him something."

Quentin feels a surge of pride, but it doesn't do much for the deep well his insides seem to be teetering on the edge of. "Good," he says anyway, and then, just in case no one told Eliot at the time - "That's brave."

Eliot gives him a small, sad smile. "This is actually where it gets worse." He takes another deep breath while Quentin's stomach drops even further.

"He told me I was... lucky," he says haltingly, eyes on the ground. "That he put up with me for so long. And how no one else ever would, because I was selfish and horrible and not worth the effort."

Quentin feels like he's had all the air punched out of him. "Jesus, El."

Eliot shrugs again, as if to say _what can you do?_ "A real charmer, right?" He brings the cigarette to his lips shakily, only to fidget and put it down again. "So that… got in my head, I guess. And when you already half-believe those things, having someone else agree is like— what's the use denying it, at that point?"

Suddenly wishing he had fought Mike right there in the lobby, Quentin starts to reach out to him - but Eliot holds up a hand to stop him, as if the comfort will keep him from saying what he needs to. Quentin swallows hard but drops his arm, determined to listen to the end.

"So I went on what we will tastefully call a bender," Eliot says after a moment, schooling his expression back into something wry. "Basically just drinking and rolling and passing out and waking up to do it again, inviting people over to drink or fuck or whatever else - whatever they wanted, as long as it felt good or made me numb enough to not think about it. That went on for… a few weeks?" He frowns, then shakes his head. "I don't really remember, which I guess is what I was aiming for. But there's a portion of July that's just— gone." Smiling weakly again, he looks back at Quentin. "Probably for the best."

"But you got out of it," Quentin prompts, like it's a question. He knows the answer - Eliot is there standing in front of him, after all - but he wants to hear it.

"I did," Eliot agrees, quietly. He drops his gaze again. "There was— one night, I woke up - nowhere near sober, not even sure where I was, but... Margo was there, helping me into bed." His mouth twists like the memory tastes sour. "I couldn't figure out why she was— why she still _cared_ , when I'd already proven so many times that I wasn't worth it. So I asked her," he sighs, brows pinching together. "And it made her cry. And that felt worse than everything else."

Quentin swallows past the heartache rising in his throat, reminding himself that the closest comfort he can offer is to just be here and let Eliot get through it. He can't help wondering when the last time Eliot told anyone this was, or if he ever has - and that thought breaks his heart a little more.

He watches Eliot inflate himself again, taking a sharp breath through his nose and straightening up. "After that, I got my shit together," he says, blasé like they've moved onto talking about the weather. "Cut people out, read a book, learned the definition of 'gaslighting'. Margo and I took a break from partying, made some life changes… and that's where you came in, so you know the rest."

He pauses, looking down at his cigarette, now burned to nearly nothing between his fingers, and breathes out a harsh laugh. "Christ. Sorry, I swear I didn't come out here planning to unload this on you," he says, shaking his head as he lifts it to his lips. 

"No, it's— I'm glad you told me," Quentin assures him. Rough as it was to hear, it was honouring too, in a way, to be trusted with it. "You didn't have to, and I know it's— it's none of my business."

"It sort of is," Eliot says wryly, blowing out another puff of smoke. "I mean, you do have a right to know what you're getting into."

It sounds a little too much like what Mike had said for Quentin's liking. "What do you mean?"

Shrugging, Eliot takes one final drag and flicks the end of his cigarette away. "Well, that whole thing might be over with, but I'm still, you know. Me."

"Yeah, and…?" Quentin furrows his brow. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Eliot is quiet, meeting his eye for a split second before dropping his gaze. The urge to wrap himself protectively around him returns to Quentin with a vengeance.

"El…" Carefully, he reaches out to take Eliot's hand. Eliot lets him this time, surprise flickering across his stony expression as Quentin holds it in both of his own. "You _are_ still you. I wouldn't ask you to be anyone else."

He watches Eliot swallow hard and try to smile, but it's a bit ragged - he looks kind of surprised, actually, like these are words he's never heard before. Quentin shoves down another wave of protectiveness and squeezes his hand, then switches gears, trying for levity. "And, look, I don't have any experience in getting people expelled, but I'm sure I could figure it out if Mike tries to talk to you again."

Eliot manages to huff out a laugh. "Thanks, I appreciate that." He sways a little closer, like the gentle touch is drawing him in. "Margo offered to take it to the dean last week, when he showed up at the party, but I didn't think it was worth it."

"Why not?" Quentin asks, frowning.

"Because being drunk in my front yard probably isn't a punishable offense," Eliot says dryly. "Talking to me outside the library probably isn't either, unfortunately."

He's right, but that doesn't make Quentin any less annoyed about it. "Are you going to tell Margo about this?"

Eliot shrugs, then reaches out with his free hand to brush Quentin's hair behind his ear. "I'll tell her you fought Mike for me," he says, smiling at him. "Embellished just a little."

Quentin flushes, but does his best to keep frowning. "That's not what I mean. He showed up at your work, Eliot. He was looking for you."

"Yeah, and he found me," Eliot sighs, impatient. "He was a dick, and then he left. It's fine, Q." He slides his hand down to cup Quentin's face instead. "I can handle it. And if he shows up in the neighbours' trees with binoculars or whatever, you'll be the first to hear about it."

Quentin deflates a little. Maybe it really isn't that big of a deal, if Eliot isn't worried about it - and it won't be a problem for the next few weeks of break, regardless. He looks up with a small smile. "No one's gonna believe I fought somebody and won, especially not Margo."

"That's what I'm here for," Eliot assures him, grinning. He pats Quentin's cheek and starts to take his hand back but pauses, glancing down. "That's— this is my scarf."

"Oh— yeah, you left it." Quentin starts to pull it off to give it back, but Eliot bats his hands away.

"You keep it," he says, rewrapping the scarf around Quentin's neck, tighter and cozier than before. "It's snowing in Jersey, right? And it's not like I'll need it in LA." He smooths his hands over the lapels of Quentin's jacket. "Speaking of. Margo's waiting."

Quentin nods, holding back a sigh. He almost wishes the break was another few days away, just so they could have a bit more time to sort through everything, but the holidays apparently take precedent over unplanned emotional upheavals. He moves to step back, but Eliot doesn't let go.

"Hold on," he laughs, tugging him a little closer. "I forgot to give you something earlier."

Confused, Quentin glances around, but Eliot doesn't seem to have anything with him. Before he can ask what it is, Eliot ducks down to capture his mouth in a sweet, soft kiss.

He sighs when they part, like he's finally satisfied. "See you in January," he murmurs, then slips away to head down the library steps. 

Quentin watches him go with a smile, feeling warm despite the frosty weather - but that doesn't stop him from burrowing into Eliot's scarf the whole way home.

\--

Once he's settled in his room at his dad's house, Quentin is completely content to spend the few days before Christmas getting reacquainted with his bed and marvelling at the amount of planes his dad has managed to incorporate into the decorations. Christmas itself is nice, even with the stilted and awkward lunch with his mom he has to get through before spending the evening at Julia's.

He also gets periodic photo updates from both Eliot and Margo, mostly location-stamped snaps of various places in LA, and selfies whenever they're having a particularly beautiful time. Even with what Eliot said about being able to talk, Quentin finds they don't actually have much opportunity for it. Margo seems to have made them a very full itinerary, and Julia's entire extended family being in town for the holidays puts her and Quentin's schedule in the same boat - Quentin included only because Julia had pleaded with him to accompany her to every family event to keep her from going insane at hearing the same five questions about school over and over again. All that, plus making time to spend with his dad, doesn't leave Quentin with many free evenings ideal for phone calls.

He and Eliot can text, at least, but being in separate time zones is it's own problem, so most of it is Quentin responding each morning to messages Eliot had sent hours before. They're both busy enough that it's not, like, _terrible_ , but Quentin can't help feeling a little frustrated at how difficult it seems for them to both have a free moment at the same time.

He decides to make an effort to stay up on New Year's Eve, planning to text Eliot at three AM when the ball drops of the west coast. Eliot had sent him a line of party horn emojis at midnight, followed by a photo of him kissing Margo's cheek, which Julia had paused their _Lord of the Rings_ marathon to recreate with Quentin. Now that he's at home in bed, he figures it's only common courtesy to message Eliot at _his_ midnight - and maybe the fact that it will almost guarantee a response has something to do with it, even if he can't read it until morning. Or later-morning.

It turns out that staying up late is much harder to do on purpose when you've been having a lot of extended quality time with your bed recently, and Quentin makes it just past two before he starts flagging. He very nearly nods off with _The Flying Forest_ open on his chest and misses midnight altogether, but at 3:08 his phone buzzes beside his head and startles him awake.

It's another emoji-filled text from Eliot, with more than one winking face thrown in the mix. Quentin smiles to himself and sends back his own mishmash. Only a few second later, Eliot's typing bubble appears.

_Why are u awake??_ he asks. Before Quentin can figure out how to make _I was waiting to text you at midnight but missed it, sorry_ sound less weird, his phone buzzes again with an incoming call. Quentin blinks at Eliot's name lighting up his screen and picks up before he can overthink it. "Um, hello?"

"Quentin!" Eliot shouts in his ear, sounding loose and happy and probably a little drunk. It seems noisy in the background with music and people cheering and laughing. "Happy new year! You're from the future, right? Tell me how it is so far."

"It's fine," Quentin laughs, closing his book and rolling onto his side. "I've been in bed for most of it, so, pretty ideal." Something loud happens on Eliot's end, either clattering plates or applause. "Are you at a party?"

"We are," Eliot says, pleased. "It's at a hotel on the coast. One of Margo's dad's friends owns it, I think. It's perfectly straddling the line between 'tastefully ornate' and 'gross display of wealth'. And there is _so_ much champagne." He pauses. "In case you couldn't tell."

Quentin grins, picturing him lounging around with a fancy, never-empty glass. "I'm glad you're having fun." He pauses, curling up and trying to ignore the sudden butterflies in his stomach. "I, um. I miss you."

There's another loud crash in the background as he says it, definitely something breaking this time - Quentin is pretty sure he hears Margo laughing, and then something muffled before Eliot returns. "Wait, let me— hold on—"

After a few more muffled seconds, the party noise cuts off so abruptly that Quentin thinks the call might have dropped. "Okay," Eliot sighs, sounding a little breathless. "I'm outside now. Jesus, this balcony is bigger than our living room. What did you say?"

Quentin takes a breath and— lets it out again, too nervous to repeat it. Eliot probably won't want to hear him get sentimental when he's having a good time, anyway. "Nothing. Um, tell Margo I said hi."

"I can find her, if you want," Eliot offers. "She's around… somewhere. We have a bet about who can get the head waiter's number, and I'm letting her win."

"That's okay," Quentin sighs, rubbing his eyes. "I should go to bed, anyway."

Eliot hums, a little disappointed. "Right, time zones. Well, happy new year, we made it, etcetera. I'll give Margo your love, and we'll toast a glass of water to you."

"Good," Quentin snickers. "I'll, um, talk to you when it's not three in the morning."

"No wonder you fall asleep at parties," Eliot laughs. He pauses for a moment, and Quentin thinks he might hear fireworks. "Goodnight, Q. See you soon."

Quentin can't help smiling at that. "Yeah. Goodnight."

He hangs up and rolls back over to stare at the ceiling, letting out a long breath. His room seems very quiet now, and he's _very_ tired, but in a good way. Talking to Eliot even for just a few minutes was more soothing than he expected it to be.

He glances at the time, takes a moment to hope Julia forgets about the New Year's Day brunch thing she mentioned wanting to do - unlikely, but worth a shot - then puts his phone down and closes his eyes, thinking about Eliot's voice in his ear until he drifts off.


	2. Chapter 2

The last week of break is much calmer, and Quentin spends most of it reading the books his dad got him for Christmas and getting rid of the last of his sleep debt just in time for spring term to make it all pointless. The whole trip has been nice, a recharge he didn't really know how much he needed until he's trying to repack his suitcase and keeps finding half-crumpled pages of annotations.

He's pretty sure he's ready to head back, though, and he _knows_ Julia is, judging by her frequent texts about her ancient grandmother's newfound investment in her love life. They made a deal before they crossed the state line that he wouldn't mention Kady or Penny to her relatives if she didn't mention Eliot to his, and that still holds until they cross back into New York. Quentin sends back some prayer emojis and puts his phone down to focus on the issue at hand: the familiar gold scarf he just found tucked into a side pocket of his suitcase.

He hasn't worn it since the day Eliot lent it to him, but he brought it along anyway, partly because Eliot told him to and partly because he had been entertaining a vague idea of seeing if it smelled like him, and then was too self-conscious to actually check. Finding it again has kind of caught him off guard - he's managed to not think too much about the Eliot situation for the past week since their phone call, but now it's like the floodgates have reopened.

Should he read into the fact that Eliot gave him his scarf? Does it even mean anything beyond Eliot just being nice? And what about kissing him before he left, and promising to talk, and having all that happen even after Eliot told him about Mike - not to mention the summer afterward, which he gets the impression is something not many people know the details of. Quentin can't help wondering how things really stand between them - they haven't really talked about it at all, even before the break, and he doesn't know how to bring it up.

He’s used to unrequited crushes, but that's not what this is. Eliot mentioned having flings, but he also said Quentin was different - how so, Quentin isn’t sure. Maybe Eliot doesn't want another capital-R-Relationship after Mike, and is only looking for him and Quentin to have something casual, like a friends-with-benefits situation. Quentin is pretty sure he could deal with that. But it seems like a good idea to make sure, just in case.

By the time he and Julia get back to their apartment - only to immediately realize they need groceries and head right out again - Quentin is tired not only from the long drive, but also from thinking in circles. Classes don’t start up again for a couple days, so hopefully he can make time with Eliot before that to talk and figure things out. He’s considering how to even begin that conversation while he waits for Julia to procure sliced ham from the deli counter, when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He shifts their basket of produce to his other hand to dig it out.

It’s a text from Margo informing him he's expected at their kicking-off-the-term party the next night, not to be missed for any reason unless his funeral is scheduled at the same time. Quentin really has missed her.

Julia returns with their deli package and shows him that she's gotten the same text. “Should we pick up something to drink tonight? There's a wine section by the checkout.”

“That'll work.” Quentin is pretty sure he remembers the name of one of the wines he saw in their kitchen last time. “Is it weird that it feels weird to be invited?”

“You've been invited to parties before,” Julia laughs, leading the way down the cereal aisle.

“Birthday parties, maybe,” Quentin huffs. “And all of them were yours.”

“Right, much more prestigious than a university house party. Mini-Wheats or Shreddies?”

Quentin considers this. “Which is easier to eat out of the bag standing in the kitchen at midnight?”

“Mini-Wheats it is.” Julia adds a box to their basket and continues down the aisle. “Anyway, I don't have any other plans tomorrow, and I'm assuming you don't either. I'm thinking we can head out around six-thirty?”

“You mean four-thirty,” Quentin corrects, hurrying to catch up with her, but she stops to give him a weird look.

“No…?” She takes out her phone to open the message again. “Look, it says to show up at seven.”

Quentin does the same and puts his phone next to hers. Margo’s texts are identical, except the one she sent to Quentin says five instead, with a kissing-face emoji in place of the winking one Julia got. “Huh.”

“Maybe it's a typo,” Quentin suggests.

“Or maybe Margo wants you to come over earlier than everyone else,” Julia says, locking her phone. “And by Margo, I mean Eliot.”

He rolls his eyes, but she waggles her eyebrows at him all through the wine section and the checkout line - and at the breakfast table the next morning, so Quentin ends up leaving the apartment even earlier just to give himself a chance to stop blushing.

He tries to walk slowly, even taking the longer route that doesn’t go through campus, but still ends up getting to the end of Margo and Eliot’s tree-lined street just before four. It had snowed a little during break and their front yard is still a pristine white blanket, which he’s sure will not last long tonight. He skirts around the edge of the yard anyway, and stomps most of the snow off his boots before he knocks on the door.

There’s no answer, which, while not the awkward situation he was expecting, is still pretty bad. He glances around and considers his options - he could take a lap of the block and pray that someone is home by the time he returns, and if not, hopefully he doesn't look suspicious enough loitering around with a bottle of wine for their neighbours to call the cops. Actually, just trying to talk to him might be worse.

"Quentin?"

He looks up at the call of his name and sees Margo and Eliot coming down the street toward the house, each carrying a canvas grocery bag. They both wave at him, and Quentin can't help grinning as he hurries over to meet them in the driveway.

"You're early," Margo chides him, even as she's pulling him into a hug. "Didn't I tell you five?"

"I got impatient," Quentin says, sheepish. 

She pulls back to raise her eyebrows at him. “What were you gonna do, just sit on the doorstep and wait?”

He probably would've resorted to that eventually, truth be told. "Maybe?"

Margo rolls her eyes, but makes no effort to hide her smile. “Well, you’re here, so make yourself useful.” She holds out her bag for Quentin to take, swapping him for the wine, then marches past him towards the house. 

Eliot laughs, and Quentin finally turns to face him just as he slides his arm over Quentin's shoulders to lead him up the walk. He's warm, which isn't new, and he's smiled at Quentin like this before, but Quentin reels from it like it's the first time. 

"She really missed you," Eliot says, quiet and conspiratorial as they mount the front steps.

"I missed her, too," Quentin admits easily. He feels light enough to float away if Eliot weren't holding onto him. "I missed both of you."

"Yeah?" Eliot smiles again, pausing just outside the door and leaning in just a little. "Hi, by the way."

"Hi," Quentin breathes. If he swayed just a bit closer, it wouldn't take much to— 

"Hey," Margo shouts from inside, startling Quentin back to himself. "You assholes know it's thirty degrees, right? Come in or stay out, just decide and close the door!"

Eliot gives Quentin a playful eye-roll and straightens up to gently nudge him inside. "We were just on a supply run for tonight," he explains, gesturing with his grocery bag as he shuts the door behind them. "Oh, and you're part of the prep crew now, since Todd is out and you're early. Congratulations."

Quentin perks up at that, eager to help. "Great, what do you need me to do?"

Humming, Eliot leads him to the kitchen where Margo is pulling things out of the fridge. "I would say 'stand there and look pretty', but that's my job."

"Uh, nice try, but no," Margo laughs, beckoning Quentin over. "Let Eliot sort out the groceries. You can help me with this."

"Blatant favouritism," Eliot huffs, but he winks at Quentin before getting to work. Quentin bites his lip to keep from smiling as he joins Margo at the counter.

This, as it turns out, is the sangria Margo is so revered for. Quentin is a little shocked he’s allowed anywhere near it, but Margo seems unbothered as she hands him a bowl of fruit and tells him to get chopping. By the time he gets all the fruit sliced into relatively uniform pieces, he has the beginnings of a hand cramp and a newfound appreciation for anyone in food service. Margo gives his handiwork an approving nod and takes the entire cutting board over to where she's set up a punch bowl.

In the meantime, Eliot has moved onto preparing small pastry-looking things to go in the oven, and also has set up what may or may not be a cheese board. Quentin thinks he's starting to understand why pizza was such a scandalous choice last time. He's roped into peeling carrots for some other vegetable dish, and almost as soon as he finishes, Margo shoos him and Eliot out of the kitchen entirely so she can put her finishing touches on the sangria - including the secret ingredient, which Eliot insists that he knows but still won't share with Quentin out of fear for his life.

"Besides, part of the fun is that you have to keep drinking it to figure it out," he explains, leading Quentin out the back door. "Let no one say we don't do party games in this house."

"Well, it's not exactly Pictionary," Quentin points out.

"Not with that attitude," Eliot counters, smirking, and then pointedly doesn't elaborate.

They spend a cold few minutes sweeping snow off the edge of the porch and unstacking lawn chairs - Quentin can't imagine anyone wanting to sit outside tonight, but Eliot assures him that Josh always manages it - then head back inside to defrost. Once Margo lets them back into the kitchen, the sangria recipe safely hidden away, they check on the things in the oven and make enough space on the table to actually plate them. Quentin spends an unreasonably long time searching for napkins before Margo takes pity on him and opens the one cabinet he hadn't tried, but she tells him that Eliot couldn't find them either, so he doesn't feel too bad. 

After the kitchen is deemed party-ready, Margo heads upstairs to change while Eliot enlists Quentin to tidy the living room. They clear off the coffee table and move one of the armchairs closer to the couch, and then Quentin sits down to check a text from Julia while Eliot decides which of the throw pillows he's willing to risk something spilling on.

"Do you know how Kady or Penny feel about off-the-shoulder sweaters?" he asks, flicking back and forth between the two outfits Julia has sent for his opinions.

Eliot raises an eyebrow, but doesn't look up. "Why, are you thinking of changing your look?"

Quentin rolls his eyes at him. "It's for Julia."

"Oh good, you had me worried that was an opener to a very awkward conversation about stealing your best friend's partners." He tosses the pillow away and sits down next to Quentin. "They're probably both into it, since everyone's horny for an oversized sweater these days. But honestly, Julia could wear just about anything and get the same reaction from them. What about you?"

Quentin blinks at him. "What?"

"The oversized look," Eliot clarifies, but Quentin is still lost. "You like sweaters, you like being cozy, what's stopping you?"

"I'm not—" Quentin says haltingly, then notices Eliot's smirk and narrows his eyes. "You're fucking with me."

"I'm at least forty percent serious," Eliot insists. "Maybe more, if you give me a minute to think about it."

Quentin gives him a playful shove, but Eliot just laughs and leans over to look at Julia’s photos, then dictates his official opinion for Quentin to type out.

When he puts his phone away, there's a moment of comfortable silence between them, Eliot's arm over the back of the couch and his knee brushing Quentin’s. Quentin looks up to ask if they should check the oven again, but it catches in his throat when he sees that Eliot is already looking back at him. He seems conflicted about something but he gives Quentin a small smile when their eyes meet.

"Listen, I was thinking," he starts, shifting on the couch to face him. "Since we got back— well, since before that, actually, but I was actively trying not to think about it while we were away—"

"About what?" Quentin asks, anxiety steadily rising in his throat.

"About… this, you know, whatever we're doing," Eliot says, gesturing between them before dropping his hands to his lap and taking a deep breath. "I can't believe I'm someone who says this now, but... I think we should talk about it."

"Oh." This is really not where Quentin expected the pre-party banter to go, but he _has_ been wanting to have this conversation. "Um, okay. Let's talk."

Eliot nods, but he looks uncomfortable, like he wants to fidget. "I just... want to make sure we're on the same page," he says slowly.

Quentin's heart sinks. Is this the part where the other shoe drops and Eliot tells him he's not looking for anything more than this? Quentin really thought he would be able to handle hearing that when the time came, but maybe he can't. There's a way out of this, though - he told himself he would take whatever Eliot was willing to give, and he'll prove it one way or another.

"We're fine," he says quickly, before Eliot can open his mouth again. "I mean, if you don't want this to be… serious, it doesn't have to be."

He looks down at his hands instead of watching Eliot's reaction, terrified that he'll see relief there. That might be worse than everything else.

"Oh," Eliot says, after a long moment. "What about what you want?"

"I want to keep doing what we're doing," Quentin says, shrugging - that part isn't even a lie. He doesn't need anything more than this, not if asking risks losing it. "So, just— whatever you want to call this, let's not overthink it."

He glances over at Eliot and finds him nodding, but with an unreadable expression, not quite blank and not quite confused - not what Quentin was expecting, either way, but maybe Eliot is just surprised that he didn't have to lay things out himself. Quentin lets himself feel a little proud for keeping it together. This way, nobody gets hurt, and nothing has to change.

Before either of them can say anything else, the front door opens and Todd stumbles through, followed by what seems like ten other people, and suddenly the living room is no longer ideal for private conversations. Quentin figures it's just as well - the conversation is over, anyway, and he doesn't really want to think about it anymore.

Eliot seems more annoyed with the intrusion though, and swears under his breath before he stands up. "Impeccable timing as always, Todd."

Todd doesn't seem to hear the sarcasm dripping off his words and smiles like he's genuinely proud. Quentin stifles a laugh and gets up too - the sangria is definitely chilled and ready by now, and it is definitely time for a drink - but Eliot catches his arm before he can slip past. Quentin blinks up at him, still struggling to read his expression. "What?"

Eliot looks back at him, then over at Todd and sighs, dropping his arm. "We'll talk later, alright?"

Quentin isn't sure what more there is to say, but he nods, and Eliot heads off to start herding Todd's friends around, slipping into host-mode. Margo also reappears, in a dress now, and drags Quentin off to the kitchen to assist her in putting together the last of the snack plates. By the time that's done, the party has officially started, and Quentin actually feels pretty good.

More guests arrive over the next half hour, including Kady, Penny and Julia, and Fen who all but jumps over the back of a chair to sit with Quentin. Kady, who Quentin didn't get to see much of last time, joins their little circle when Julia comes over, and tries in vain to get Quentin on her side when they argue about the weird local brewery Penny is apparently obsessed with.

Quentin is almost amazed at how easy it is to just sit around chatting - maybe because he's well rested this time, or because he feels like he's actually friends with everyone around him. He even gets to spend some quality time with just Julia, eating all the grapes off the cheese board and trying, unsuccessfully, to figure out the secret sangria ingredient.

The downside is that he only gets passing glances of Eliot, constantly flitting between rooms and people even when Margo takes a break to put her feet up (in Fen's lap this time, but Quentin can respect that). Quentin supposes he's making up for spending so much of the last party being napped on and therefore unable to really participate in regular hosting duties. It's not so bad after the initial hype dies down, and he comes around every so often to refill Margo's drink or draw attention to Julia's scandalously bare shoulder - mostly for Penny and Kady's benefit. And he always checks on Quentin, leaving light touches on his shoulders or catching his eye just long enough to smile and slip away again.

At one point, after Margo heads back to the kitchen, Eliot takes a few minutes to perch on the arm of Quentin's chair and pick almost absentmindedly at his shirt collar where it's trapped under his sweater, until it's straightened out and Quentin has completely lost track of the conversation at hand. When someone new arrives, Eliot brushes his thumb across Quentin's neck as he gets up, and Quentin gets distracted watching him head over to the door until Kady prods him with her foot to get his attention back. "Ow. What?"

"Just making sure you're still here with us," she says with a grin, recrossing her legs. She leans back on the couch and nods in Eliot's direction, one eyebrow raised. "Are you guys a thing, or what?"

"Kady," Julia chides, but she's smiling too. "Don't embarrass him."

"I'm just asking," Kady insists. "He's always making eyes at you, and you look ready to cry whenever he stops touching you. There's gotta be something."

Quentin laughs nervously. "Um, not really."

"Oh, bullshit," Penny says, and Julia smacks his arm.

Kady puts her drink down to fix Quentin with an incredulous look. "Are you telling me you guys look at each other like _that_ all the time and it's, what, an accident?"

"You seemed really close at the last party," Fen pipes up.

"And you did spend the night here afterwards," Julia points out, as if Quentin could've forgotten that. Still, there's other things she could say that are more incriminating than that, so Quentin supposes he should explain.

"It's, um—" Complicated isn't the right word anymore - it's pretty simple now, isn't it? He gives them a tight smile. "It's nothing serious."

"Oh," Fen says, looking a little disappointed. "I thought Eliot wasn't doing that anymore."

Quentin frowns at her. "Doing what?"

"The anti-commitment thing," Penny says, and even he looks a little surprised for a moment before he shrugs and goes back to his drink. "I get it, though. Dating is rough."

Kady twists around to raise her eyebrows at him. "You sure you don't wanna rephrase that?"

"I didn't mean _you_ , I meant— okay, look—"

Quentin manages a laugh as Penny tries to dig himself out of the hole he's dug, but he can feel Julia's eyes on him and purposefully ignores her. She of all people should understand that sometimes relationships are unconventional - not that he and Eliot are really in a relationship, but the through line is there. 

It's a little weird, though, that they all seemed to expect there to be more between him and Eliot - as if he's anywhere close to Eliot's league, or as if Eliot would _want_ something more with him, which— it's nice to imagine, sure, but Quentin knows it's better to have realistic expectations than to set himself up for failure.

Despite that, it's getting harder and harder to make himself sit still, and within a few minutes he abruptly doesn't want to be there anymore. He waits until the conversation moves on and then gets up quietly, still avoiding Julia's gaze.

Before he even has to decide where he's headed, the front door opens and Todd hurries inside, looking out of breath but relieved when he spots Quentin. "Hey, do you know where Eliot is?" he asks. "Or Margo? There’s a— in the yard—"

Quentin blinks at him, trying to focus. "What, did someone get sick?"

"No, it’s— it's this guy, Mike, he showed up last time too."

Something cold slides down Quentin's spine. "Mike is here?"

Todd nods somewhat hesitantly, looking a little concerned about Quentin, now. "Should I get Margo instead, or—?"

"No,” Quentin decides, heading past him. He skips over the closet where his jacket is hanging and pulls the door open again. "I'll deal with it." He could use some fresh air, anyway.

Mike is easy to spot at the edge of the yard, taking long swigs from a bottle and pacing back and forth. He looks ready to fight the few people left between him and the front steps, but when he sees Quentin he shoots him a grin, waving him over. Quentin lets out a long sigh. What could possibly go wrong with this?

Behind him, Todd has one hand on the door handle, like he's ready to bolt if things get ugly. "I think he's wasted. Should we call the cops or something?"

Quentin is pretty sure a police visit would break up the whole party, not to mention attract the neighbours' attention and potentially get Todd evicted. Probably not the greatest end to the night. "I'll get him to leave," he says, heading down the steps. 

He hopes Todd doesn't go back in for Eliot, or that if he does, Quentin can get Mike to fuck off beforehand. Mike might be an asshole, but any interaction with him is worth it if it keeps Eliot from having to do it instead. He can do this, he tells himself as he steps into the snow. He can face down a bully. He can do this one thing for Eliot.

Mike tosses the bottle away as Quentin gets closer, still grinning. Quentin isn't sure if it's better or worse that he's drunk now when he was already so charming while sober.

"You the new bouncer?" Mike laughs, in lieu of a greeting. "I really thought that kid would bring Margo out, at least."

Worse, then. Quentin can't bring himself to be surprised. "Maybe I'm just out here for fun," he says, stopping a few feet away and crossing his arms against the cold. "What about you?"

"I'm here for the party," Mike says, spreading his arms like he's expecting to be welcomed. Quentin cringes a little.

"I don't think you were invited."

Mike ignores that. "I wanna talk to Eliot."

"That's not happening," Quentin says, trying to sound firm, but Mike just shrugs.

"Then I guess we have a problem," he drawls, and goes back to pacing menacingly back and forth. 

Sighing, Quentin takes a step closer. "Are you sure you can't just leave and make this easier for everyone involved?"

"Who's gonna make me?" Mike asks, suddenly rounding on him. "You?"

Quentin stands his ground, unflinching. "If I have to, yeah."

Mike stares at him for a moment, then laughs, loud and mean. "You know, I really couldn't figure out why Eliot's keeping you around," he says, shaking his head. "But now I think maybe he just missed having someone to pick up after him all the time."

The discomfort simmering in Quentin's chest turns abruptly into anger. "You don't know him as well as you think," he grits out.

"What, and you do?" Mike sneers at him. "He doesn't care about you. You're just a toy to him, something to play with when he's bored. But the shine always wears off eventually."

Quentin winces. It's nothing he hasn't already thought of himself, but having his doubts thrown in his face by the last person on earth he wants to know about them seems a little unfair. Mike, unfortunately, notices and grins again.

"Do yourself a favour and quit while you're ahead," he says, leaning close. "I've seen what he does with boys he gets tired of. And you're not exactly his type."

Swallowing hard, Quentin looks away. Somehow it cuts deeper when it's said out loud. He's not sure why he thought this would go any better than it did in the library, why _he_ of all people would be able to do this— 

But when Mike starts to step past him, Quentin shoves all the hurt away and steps in front of him again. If nothing else, he decides, he will keep himself between Mike and Eliot.

"Look, you don't want to do this," he tries, forcing the words out. "It's late, you're drunk, I'm sure it's been a rough night." He reaches out to lead Mike back to the curb. "We can call you an Uber or something, if you need—"

"Don't touch me," Mike spits, smacking his hand away. Quentin barely registers that he's reeling his arm back for a punch until he's halfway into the follow through, and by then it's too late to duck.

Mike's fist slams into the side of his face, sending a bright burst of pain through Quentin's skull as he wrenches sideways with the force of it. He stumbles back and lands hard in the snow, but barely registers anything beyond the vague cold and the sharp throb across his cheekbone. He thinks he hears someone gasp, or maybe someone yelling, but it could just be the ringing in his ears.

He barely has time to push himself up on his elbows before Mike is there again, grabbing the neck of his sweater and hauling him to his knees. The second hit doesn't hurt as much as the first, but Quentin's head still snaps to the side and he thinks he sees blood in the snow - is that his? Is he bleeding? Are his teeth actually rattling or is that just what getting punched feels like? He watches Mike reel back a third time almost in slow motion, wondering vaguely if closing his eyes would make things worse.

Before Mike can bring his fist down again, Julia appears and shoves him away, sending him stumbling. Quentin collapses backwards without Mike's grip holding him up, but is caught before he can fall in the snow again - suddenly Eliot is there too, looking pale and frantic as he helps Quentin to his feet. Once he's upright he can see both Julia and Margo rounding on Mike, who looks way less cocky now that he's outnumbered.

He's pretty sure he can stand on his own without being too wobbly, but Eliot stays close, keeping one hand steady on his back and the other wrapped tightly around Quentin's own. Todd flits around nervously behind them.

"Are you okay?" he asks. "I should've gotten help earlier, but I didn't know he was going to—"

"I'm fine," Quentin coughs, then winces. Moving his mouth makes the entire side of his face twinge, and that sends pain radiating through his whole jaw. He looks around at the small crowd that's gathered - more people must have come outside to look when Todd came in - and then back over at Mike, on the ground now, groaning with Margo standing over him.

"Stay down, or it won't just be your dick that hurts," she says coldly, then turns back to the others, tossing her hair out of her face. "What part of 'invite only' doesn't this motherfucker understand?"

Julia steps past her and comes to Quentin's side, carefully turning his face to look at the damage - but not so far he can't see her horrified reaction. "Oh my god, Q."

"I'm fine, Quentin repeats, brushing her hand aside. "It probably looks worse than it is." He swipes at the wetness he can feel under his nose and frowns when his fingers come away red. Eliot tightens his grip on his hand.

"Good, 'cause you _really_ don't look fine," Margo says, grimacing. She urges both him and Eliot back towards the house. "Go get cleaned up. Julia and I will take care of fuckhead over there."

Eliot hesitates, shooting a truly murderous glance in Mike's direction, but Margo steps in front of him. "No, you're not talking to him," she says firmly, giving him a hard look. "Not even to tell him to fuck off. It's not worth it. Take Quentin inside, we'll handle it."

He glares back at her for a long second, but nods stiffly and doesn't argue. He slides his arm around Quentin's shoulders to lead him away, Todd helping him clear a path to the door.

He half-carries Quentin inside and upstairs to the bathroom, where he gives him a cup of water to wash the blood out of his mouth - he has to spit a truly alarming amount of red into the sink before it stays clear, but at least none of his teeth are loose. After that, Eliot sits him on the counter while he rinses out the sink and finds the first aid kit. Quentin stays quiet, trying not to fidget as he watches Eliot wet a cloth. The entire left side of his face has started to steadily throb, plus he can feel the blood drying sticky on his lips and chin. When he tugs up his sleeve to wipe at it, Eliot pulls his hand away, then helps Quentin pull his sweater off without getting any more blood on it than there already is. His jeans are damp from the snow from the knees down, but Eliot doesn't seem as concerned about that, or about the blood smeared on his vest. Quentin figures it's better not to mention it.

Then Eliot picks up the damp cloth, and Quentin keeps his hands in his lap while Eliot gently wipes the blood away from his nose and mouth. He tries not to show how much it hurts, but he can't help flinching when the cloth swipes over his cheek. Eliot murmurs an apology and moves closer, standing between Quentin's knees, but Quentin catches his hand when he raises the cloth again, making him pause.

"What?" he asks, soft and concerned.

Quentin swallows and avoids his gaze. "You don't have to—"

Eliot cuts him off with a raised eyebrow. "Does it hurt?"

"Um," Quentin says. "Yes?"

"Then let me."

Sheepish, Quentin drops his hand again, and Eliot goes back to carefully clearing the last of the blood away. He moves to toss the stained cloth into the bathtub, then gets out a bottle of disinfectant and a cotton swab before returning to his position between Quentin's legs. The disinfectant only stings a little, and Quentin is pretty sure there are only a couple places where Mike's knuckles broke skin, not counting where Quentin's teeth cut into the inside of his cheek.

When he finishes, Eliot steps back again to put the bottle away and wash his hands. "I guess you can say you told me so," he says after a moment.

"I wasn't going to," Quentin says, wry as he can manage. "Trying to knock my teeth out wasn't really the direction I was expecting him to go in."

"Yes, well," Eliot sighs. "He's full of surprises."

Quentin freezes, a sickening thought crossing his mind. "Did he ever—"

"Hit me? No," Eliot assures him. "But he stamped plenty of other boxes on the shitty boyfriend bingo card."

It's not much of a relief. Quentin bites his lip as he watches Eliot scrub at the blood dried on his wrist, thinking about his shaky hands after getting accosted outside the library. He seems steady enough now, but still. "I was hoping you wouldn't have to see him," Quentin admits.

Eliot gives him a long look. "Is that why you went outside?" When Quentin nods, he turns off the tap and leans on the counter. "Honestly, Q, even when he was there in front of me, I wasn't really thinking about it. In hindsight, yeah, I wish I'd kicked his ass with Margo, obviously. But the bleeding houseguest was kind of a priority."

Quentin's mouth twists. He's selfishly glad that Eliot was the one to bring him upstairs instead of staying outside, but still feels a bit guilty about it. Hopefully whatever Margo and Julia had in mind for Mike didn't take long, and they can all get back to the party like nothing happened. If he had just been able to deal with Mike by himself…

His thoughts are interrupted when Eliot clicks the first aid kit shut with a sigh. "I don't think you need band-aids," he says, frowning. "You'll probably have a hell of a bruise tomorrow, though."

Quentin nods and drops his gaze to his lap. "Sorry about this," he mumbles.

Eliot raises an eyebrow as he puts the kit back in the cabinet. "Are you seriously apologizing for getting punched?"

"No, I mean, even before Mike showed up." He ducks his head a little. "You've been checking on me all night, even while you have other stuff to do, and— and now _this_ , I just feel like I'm… keeping you from having fun at your own party. You're allowed to leave me alone for five seconds, I promise."

"The last time I did that, you ended up bleeding all over my front lawn," Eliot points out, but he closes the cabinet and lets out a breath. "If you want me to give you some space…"

Quentin shakes his head, twisting his fingers together in his lap. "It's more like me giving _you_ space. I just— I don't want you to feel like you have to do anything special just because I'm, you know, being… clingy."

Eliot gives him a weird look. "What do you mean?" 

"I just—" Quentin fumbles, not sure how to explain something he thought was obvious. "I'm— trying to— like, I know I'm not your type, or whatever."

"My _type_?" Eliot laughs, coming closer again. "Oh, Q, you have _no_ idea." He rests his hands on Quentin's knees, fixing him with a patient look. "Who told you that?"

Quentin hesitates. "It's just something that… Mike mentioned."

Eliot shakes his head, rolling his eyes like he expected as much. "Okay, look. When I first met Mike, Margo hated him immediately. She could never give me a real reason, and I assumed it was because I was spending more time with him than with her." He pauses a moment, drumming his fingers against Quentin's thigh. "Then we broke up, and I was— a nightmare, to myself and her and everyone else. And when I came out of that, I promised myself I would never doubt Margo's intuition ever again."

He slides his hands up Quentin's legs, making him tense up with the effort not to squirm. "The point is," Eliot says, quieter now, "there are maybe two people on this earth who know what my type is. One of them is Margo. And you've seen the looks she gives me about you."

Quentin has, admittedly. "Didn't she call me a nerd, though?" he asks weakly.

"Yeah, and she wasn't wrong about that either," Eliot assures him. He catches and holds Quentin's gaze, smiling softly. "Q. I want you to be here. You're not keeping me from doing anything better with my time. This is how I want to spend it." He pauses, glancing around the bathroom. "Well, preferably not _exactly_ this, but you get what I mean."

"I think so," Quentin says quietly, a tentative hope rising in his chest.

Eliot looks ready to say something else, but they both look away at the sound of quick footsteps on the stairs. Eliot pulls back and a second later, Julia appears in the doorway.

"Hey," she greets, giving Quentin a worried sort of smile. "You okay? You look a lot better."

"That might change when the bruise shows up," Quentin says, but he twists to look in the mirror - he does look a lot less gory than he did before, which is a relief. He turns to smile back at her. "Is, uh, Mike alive?"

Eliot muffles a laugh as Julia rolls her eyes. "Yes, he's fine. He didn't really get up again after Margo dropped him." She looks almost disappointed about that. "We just got him a cab and gave the driver all the cash in his wallet. Oh, and Margo found his phone and texted his academic advisor. I'm not sure what she sent, but she seemed _very_ pleased with it."

Quentin looks to Eliot. "Dick pic, maybe?"

"Right there in the yard? Bambi's too classy for that," Eliot says, crossing his arms. "Unless it was already in his camera roll, in which case, can she really be blamed?"

"You can just ask her," Julia laughs, thumbing over his shoulder. "She's downstairs making everyone swear on their life that they won't spread word about the fight."

Eliot nods approvingly, but Quentin is a little alarmed. "Is that, uh, necessary?"

"Don't worry, most people are smart enough to know what happens at _chez Margo_ stays at _chez Margo_ ," Eliot says, waving him off. "It's mostly Todd's friends that need the reminder."

"I guess it makes sense to not want it to get around," Quentin sighs, looking down guiltily. "Probably not a great thing to have your events known for, right?"

"It's not just that," Julia says, tilting her head. "I don't think she wants anyone to give you a hard time about it."

"Oh." Quentin hadn't even considered that. The thought lights up a little burst of warmth in his chest.

"Too bad," Eliot sighs, patting his shoulder. "I know you were really looking forward to having a reputation."

Julia rolls her eyes as Quentin frowns exaggeratedly. "I'll tell her you said thanks." 

She moves to leave, but pauses and reaches out to tip Quentin's face up to the light. "I see what you mean about the bruise," she says, brow furrowed. "It's already pretty red. Does it still hurt?"

Quentin nods - it doesn't feel like the thick wave of pain it was earlier, but the steady throb is still there, prickly with heat. Julia frowns in sympathy. "I'll get you some ice," she says, and slips out to head back downstairs.

It leaves Quentin alone with Eliot again, quiet for a long few seconds. Quentin looks over to see if Eliot will continue what he started to say earlier, but he's turned away to hang Quentin's bloody sweater in the tub, along with his vest. Whatever quiet moment they had going is definitely over now.

"Icing it is a good idea," Eliot says, re-tucking his shirt as he comes back over to Quentin. "Do you want to stay up here or go back downstairs?"

Now that the adrenaline has left him, Quentin is sure that if he were to lie down he would fall asleep immediately - but he also wants to stay with Eliot. "We can go back down."

Eliot smiles and holds out a hand, and Quentin hops down off the counter to take it.

They pause only a few steps from the top of the stairs, though, Eliot getting a mischievous look on his face as he tugs Quentin right past the landing.

"One more thing," he says, steering him towards his bedroom. He lets go of Quentin's hand to duck inside, and comes back with the hoodie Quentin had left - almost a month ago, by now. "Since your sweater is currently dripping blood into my bathtub."

Quentin grins, ignoring the twinge it causes, and slips it on. It smells clean but enough like Eliot that Quentin wonders where he kept it. The idea of his worn zip-up in Eliot's closet beside his pressed slacks and vests is terrible, but makes him giddy all the same. "Thanks. I didn't bring your scarf, though."

"You'll have to leave that here again then, until we can make a proper exchange," Eliot says, ushering him back to the stairs. "It's only fair."

Quentin, who was already thinking of doing that, agrees easily enough.

As promised, Julia brings him an ice pack almost as soon as he and Eliot get downstairs. It's immediately soothing, if not a little awkward to hold against his face, so he lets Margo herd him over to the couch and all but throw him down on it.

"Stay there," she orders, hands on her hips. "Eliot's on guard dog duty. You're allowed to demand anything of anyone, and if they have a problem, call me."

"I think I'll be fine," Quentin says weakly. Margo gives him a firm look, but he sees the worried crease between her brows and remembers just how quickly she had come outside to deal with Mike. Julia's ferocity he had expected, and Eliot's reaction was understandable, but Margo had been right behind them, just as concerned, just as angry. The warmth from before spreads through his chest again. "Thank you, though. For, um. You know." He gestures vaguely with his free hand. "Everything.”

Margo deflates a little, and ducks down to kiss his forehead. "I'd throw down for you any time, baby Q."

He flushes at the nickname but can't help smiling. Eliot gives him a knowing look when he sits down beside him, which Quentin pointedly ignores.

A lot of the guests seem to have cleared out since the fight, but it makes for a more relaxed atmosphere that Quentin appreciates. Everyone who matters seems to still be around, anyway, and they all end up making their way to the living room to crowd around the coffee table. Eliot takes advantage of this by rerouting every new conversation back to how hot it was that Quentin could take a punch, which is fine until Quentin's ice pack melts and he can't hide his blush behind it anymore. Being able to feel his face throbbing again is probably a more important downside, though.

Julia notices him wincing after a few minutes and procures a bottle of Tylenol from her purse, which Eliot takes and opens for him, then hands Quentin two pills along with his glass - he swears it's sparkling water, when Quentin goes through the discomfort of squinting suspiciously at it.

The Tylenol doesn't take long to kick in, which is nice, but it also makes Quentin very aware of how tired he is. Luckily, everyone left over seems to decide to leave around the same time that Quentin really starts struggling not to yawn. While they all stand up to head to the door and sort out coats and things, he takes an extra moment to enjoy the warmth of the couch before what he knows will be a very difficult process of extricating himself from it. Eliot also stays behind with him, and that's enough of a reason to stall for a little more time until he absolutely _has_ to get up and find his jacket. He spends a few long seconds lost in the feeling of rubbing his eyes, and when he finally surfaces he finds Eliot watching him with a smile.

"Ready to go?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Not yet," Quentin sighs, letting his head fall back against the cushions. "I think I have a conditioned response to your couch, now. Every time I sit here I want to sleep."

Eliot huffs a laugh. "Well, I can't say I recommend that, if you're staying over. But there is a bed upstairs." He pauses. "Well, half a bed. You're good at sharing, though."

Quentin thinks briefly of Eliot's soft sheets and suddenly can't stand the idea of going all the way home to his own bed. If Eliot is offering, it must be fine, right? "Um… yeah, okay."

Looking pleased, Eliot helps him up from the couch so he can say goodbye to Julia and the others. He gets a hug from Fen and some rushed self-defense tips from Kady - even Penny gives him an uncomfortable sort of clap on the shoulder, but Quentin appreciates the effort.

Julia doesn't seem surprised to hear that he's staying over, but she does promise she's not forgetting her purse this time, and wraps him in a tight hug before she steps out after Kady and Penny. Then the house is quiet and mostly empty, and Quentin yawns so wide his cheek twinges, and Eliot takes his hand to lead him upstairs.

He's careful not to bump any of the cuts in his mouth while he brushes his teeth - washing his face is an entirely separate battle, but he perseveres for Eliot's sake. In Eliot's room they both undress quietly, Quentin throwing his hoodie and jeans on the floor with a weird feeling of déjà vu while Eliot selects another pair of soft sleep pants. When they climb into bed, though, Eliot doesn't make any move to lie down or turn off the lamp, and instead looks almost nervous.

It puts Quentin on edge, and he sits up hesitantly. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Eliot says quickly, shooting him a reassuring smile. "Nothing's wrong, I'm just… I said we would talk more later, and… it's later."

"Oh." Quentin runs through their earlier conversation in his head, his heart sinking right back down like no time has passed. He tries his best to brace himself, but Eliot just gives him a long look, seeming deep in thought.

"I think I have to apologize, first," he says eventually. "I didn't get a chance to say much earlier, and I almost let myself leave it like that. But there's no point if I'm not being honest with you, and I... I _want_ to be honest. You deserve that much."

Quentin frowns, confused. Eliot has already told him about Mike, and the summer after, neither of which could've been easy. What more could Eliot think he's entitled to hear? "You've already been honest," he tries, but Eliot shakes his head.

"Not about this." He reaches out for Quentin's hand, which he gives easily, and looks down at his fingers instead of at him. "I've been purposefully avoiding this conversation so I wouldn't have to think about what this is - what we're doing. When you seemed fine not questioning it either, I… took advantage of that." He clears his throat, lifting his gaze and giving Quentin a wry smile. "Not great, I admit. But I don't have the best track record with relationships, as you might have heard."

"I don't know if it's fair to count Mike," Quentin says, mouth twisting.

"Even before that, there was never anything I'd call serious," Eliot sighs. "I'm not exactly… in the habit of expecting things to work out for me. So I don't usually give them a chance to. But…" He trails off, looking down at Quentin's hand again, carefully turning it palm-up. "But with you… it's different. It's easy. And I was— scared, to think about what it means to actually want it to work, for once."

Quentin's throat feels tight. "Oh."

"Yeah." Eliot shrugs. "So if you would rather it not be serious, I can, you know, reel that in."

"No," Quentin says quickly, flipping his hand over to grasp Eliot's fingers. "You don't need to. This is—" He swallows hard and doesn't let himself look away. "I thought it would ruin everything, if you found out how much I wanted this."

A tentative smile spreads across Eliot's face. "So instead, you turned me down before I could turn you down?"

"I know it was dumb," Quentin admits, "but I didn't think you would want—"

"I do want it," Eliot says, quiet but sure. He raises one hand to cup Quentin's face and thumb gently over his uninjured cheek. "I'm sorry I ever made you think otherwise."

Quentin leans into the touch almost automatically. "Me, too."

After a moment Eliot takes his hand back and moves to lie down properly, beckoning for Quentin to do the same. While he's pulling the blankets up around them, Quentin scoots himself as close as he can to Eliot while still being arguably on his side of the bed, but Eliot just tugs him the rest of the way over, until they're pressed together with Quentin's head on his shoulder and their fingers linked.

A few seconds pass in comfortable silence before Eliot sighs and presses his cheek against Quentin's head. "So you really thought we could be casual about this, huh?"

Quentin shrugs. "I thought maybe you could."

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I don't really do 'casual'. In any aspect."

"I guess not," Quentin agrees, hiding his smile against Eliot's neck. "Sorry, I should have known better."

Eliot hums disapprovingly, but he moves his free hand up to stroke through Quentin's hair, softly brushing stray strands behind his ear. "Tell me again what you want," he murmurs.

Quentin peeks up at him, determined to be honest this time. "I want this," he says easily, like it's just been waiting on his tongue. "With you. I want it to work." 

"Good," Eliot says, and kisses the top of his head. "Glad that's sorted. Anything else?"

Biting his lip, Quentin thinks about it for a moment - then pushes himself up on his elbow to lean in and catch Eliot's mouth with his own. Eliot makes a contented noise against his lips and lets Quentin press him down, not even bothering to pretend he's surprised.

Eventually Quentin has to pull back to catch his breath, and Eliot looks up at him with a smile. "You alright?"

"Yeah," Quentin breathes. "Yes, I'm— this is just." He gestures vaguely. "A lot."

"It's been a long day," Eliot agrees. He brings his hand back up to push Quentin's hair out of his face. "Don't get punched again any time soon."

Quentin isn't sure if it'll be up to him or not, but whatever. "I'll do my best."

Satisfied, Eliot stretches out to shut off the lamp, then pulls Quentin down to rest on his shoulder again, tangling their legs together under the covers. "So what do you want to call this, now that we _are_ overthinking it?" he asks into the dark.

"Um, well—" Quentin tries to focus on the question, but Eliot's foot dragging up his shin is a little distracting. "What are the options?"

"I'm partial to _boyfriends_ ," Eliot suggests. " _Lovers_ is kind of lacking in context. _Significant others_ is a mouthful but also has a drama factor. There's also _partners_ if you're into gender neutrality, or, like, cowboys." Quentin snorts. Eliot ignores him. "We don't have to commit to one now - or ever, if you want to change it up. I just want to know what I should introduce you as."

"Who are you going to be introducing me to?" Quentin asks, stifling laughter.

"Uh, literally anyone and everyone," Eliot says, like it's obvious. "Like, I know you've known Julia for twenty years or whatever, but I don't think she's met my boyfriend Quentin yet."

"Oh." Quentin grins even though Eliot can't see it, giddiness bubbling up in him. "Yeah, she'd probably like that."

Eliot hums, turning his head to press his lips to Quentin's forehead. "Something tells me you would, too."

Quentin pushes himself up in search of a real kiss and finds Eliot already ducking down, their lips sliding together easily. It's soft and slow and mostly sleepy, after a few seconds, but Quentin can't imagine wanting anything else.

\--

In the morning, Quentin wakes up to Eliot gently stroking his cheek. It doesn't really hurt, but the sensation edges close enough to pain that it draws him out of the warm bliss of sleep to squint at Eliot where he's propped up on his elbow beside him. "Ow."

"Sorry," Eliot murmurs, removing his hand and leaning down to kiss him instead. "You've definitely got a bruise now."

"Yeah? How's it look?"

"Like it hurts. Margo probably has painkillers somewhere around here."

Quentin shakes his head. The more he wakes up, the more it starts to ache, but it's nowhere near as bad as it was the night before. Plus, he doesn't want to get out of bed just yet.

With a mischievous smile, Eliot ducks down to nose against his neck. "I can distract you, if you want."

"With what?" Quentin hums, turning his head to give him more space. Eliot makes his way across his throat and then up under his jaw, pressing a kiss there. When he presses his tongue to the same spot, Quentin glares at the ceiling, immediately suspicious. "If you give me hickeys, Julia will never let me hear the end of it."

Eliot huffs a laugh. "Is that supposed to make me not want to?"

Quentin playfully shoves him away and rolls to get on top of him. He plants himself triumphantly in Eliot's lap but Eliot seems pleased, sitting up against the pillows with a grin. 

"What?" Quentin prompts, beaming right back.

"Oh, you know," Eliot sighs, trailing one of his hands up the back of Quentin's shirt. "Just remembering how hot it was that you got in a fight for me."

Quentin snickers, resting his forearms on Eliot's shoulders. "I don't know if I'd call it a fight, it was pretty one-sided."

"Just— shh," Eliot cuts him off, but he smiles when Quentin leans in closer. "Let me have this."

He tilts his face up just enough to draw Quentin down into a kiss, humming appreciatively when Quentin immediately opens up for him. Snaking his other hand into Quentin's shirt, he pushes it up as far as he can before he has to pull away to help tug it over his head. As soon as Quentin is untangled from it, Eliot tosses the shirt off the side of the bed and dives right back in, nipping Quentin's lip and letting his hands roam over his bare chest.

Every touch seems to radiate across Quentin's entire body. He holds onto Eliot's shoulders and just tries to breathe normally, or as normally as he can with most of his mouth preoccupied. He thinks he's doing a pretty valiant job of staying cool and collected until Eliot drags his nails up the back of his neck and into his hair, and pulls.

Quentin feels it sharp and hot down his spine and squirms, remembering a little too late that he's sitting in Eliot's lap and any move he makes presses them closer together. He does his best to play it off like he's just resettling himself, but he's also definitely half hard, and even with his eyes closed nothing gets past Eliot, apparently. Quentin feels him start to smile against his mouth and pulls away, sheepish. "Um, I mean, ' _ouch_ '."

Eliot laughs. "It's honestly such a tragedy that you haven't explored this hair-pulling thing before now," he sighs, gently massaging the place he tugged. "But on the other hand, I'm incredibly, selfishly glad that you didn't."

"Why?" Quentin asks, wry even as he leans into the touch. "You like helping people discover their kinks that much?"

"That," Eliot agrees, "and I like the idea that I'm the first person to see you like this."

Quentin flushes, heat settling low in his stomach. Eliot watches him with amusement, still petting his hair.

"It's okay, right?" he asks, quieter. "It doesn't hurt?"

"It does," Quentin admits. "But it's— it's good, when you do it."

For a split second Eliot looks surprised, but it's quickly overtaken by the grin that spreads across his face even as he leans in to catch Quentin's mouth again. He fists his hand in Quentin's hair, tugging harder and sending another spike of arousal through him. Quentin whines against his mouth, trying hard to stay still, but this time Eliot shifts under him - just enough for Quentin to feel the press of Eliot's dick where it's tenting the front of his pants. His other hand is firm on Quentin's hip, holding him there like he _wants_ him to feel it. Quentin is pretty sure that means he's allowed to move.

It really only takes the smallest roll of his hips to press himself right against Eliot, and the short, hot slide of it even through their clothes makes him lose his breath. The hand in his hair moves to the back of his neck, and from there Quentin settles into a rhythm, grinding down on Eliot over and over. It would probably feel even better without pajamas involved but he's not patient enough to take anything off when he's close to coming just like this, panting into Eliot's mouth while Eliot alternates between murmuring encouragement and scratching his nails over Quentin's nape.

His thighs start to burn from the repeated movement, but even that is overtaken by the heat and pleasure building up in him, coiling tight. "Eliot—"

"Yeah, Q, come on," Eliot breathes, holding him in place while Quentin ruts against him. "Just like this. I'm right here."

Quentin teeters on the edge just long enough to feel Eliot tense up underneath him, and comes with a gasp as Eliot groans his name. He loses track of things for a few seconds after that, and shudders his way through a couple more weak thrusts before he slumps over onto Eliot's shoulder to try and catch his breath and remember where all his limbs are.

Eliot brushes Quentin's sweat-damp hair out of his face and ducks down to kiss the side of his head. He doesn't seem as shaky and uncoordinated as Quentin feels, but Quentin can also hear his heartbeat pounding where he's pressed against Eliot's neck. Either way, nobody is moving until Quentin can feel his legs again.

"How are you doing?" Eliot asks quietly, once both of them have gotten their breath back.

"Good," Quentin murmurs, smiling into his shoulder. "Tired. And sore, a little."

"You did do most of the work," Eliot points out, combing his fingers through Quentin's hair. "I really meant to flip you over at some point, but it turns out that having a cute boy get himself off on top of you is really kind of distracting. Who knew?" He spreads his free hand across Quentin's back, slowly stroking down his spine. "Next time, you can just lie back and enjoy. I'll take care of you."

Quentin is too wrung out to even begin to think about that, or the dim spark of heat it sends through him. Eliot seems to take his hard swallow as enough of an answer.

"How's your face?" He nudges Quentin off his shoulder to take a closer look at the bruise, fingers gentle along his jaw. "Does it still hurt?"

"A bit," Quentin admits, but it's so far down the list of things he cares about at the moment, he hardly notices the twinge. As he sits up, though, the wet spot in his boxers makes itself known as a different and becoming-more-uncomfortable situation.

Eliot shifts a little and grimaces, apparently on the same page. "What say we hit pause on the post-coital cuddling and shower before things get any... stickier?"

Quentin quickly agrees. Extricating himself from Eliot's lap is difficult - he spent so long in the same position that he kind of feels like he's going to dislocate his hip getting out of it, but Eliot gets immediate and aggressive pins-and-needles down both his legs, so it's a rough trip down the hall for both of them. Eliot insists Quentin shower first and finds him a towel, then waits patiently outside the bathroom door for Quentin to shimmy out of his boxers so he can put them in the laundry.

The water temperature is easy enough to figure out, which Quentin is grateful for, but he has no idea what to do with all the bottles and soaps and other mystery items on the corner shelf. He stands under the hot spray just reading labels for a good few minutes before he picks out a simple-looking body wash that might be Todd's, and another bottle that may or may not be shampoo. It smells like Eliot when sniffs the cap, so he decides to chance it. Worst case scenario, it's some sort of high-end shaving cream or something, but at least he'll smell nice.

When he turns the water off and wraps up in the towel, Eliot knocks softly on the door. He's changed out of pajamas and into a silky bathrobe, and he has what looks like a terry cloth blanket over his arm - when he holds it out to Quentin, though, he sees it's another robe, but much longer and fluffier than what Eliot is wearing.

"We liberated it from one of the hotels in LA," he explains, as Quentin slips it on. "They're supposed to fine you for taking them, but Margo performed some sort of Christmas miracle with a complimentary garment bag. And it wasn't actually our hotel."

"Wow," Quentin laughs, marveling at how soft the fabric is. "I'm honoured to borrow such a hard-won treasure."

Humming, Eliot steps closer to tie it at the waist for him. "Well, I'm never going to wear it, and Margo has her own, so is it really borrowing?" When Quentin starts to frown, Eliot ducks down to kiss it off his face before he can protest - but he pulls back much too quickly, in Quentin's opinion, and looks suddenly confused. "Why do you smell like— Did you use my shampoo?"

"I think so?" Quentin says, a little wary. "There were a lot of options, and that one, it… smelled like you."

Eliot seems to struggle internally for a moment. "That is… extremely cute," he says, brushing Quentin's wet hair behind his ear. "However. That formula is customized, and therefore expensive, and, more importantly, not correct for your hair type."

"Oh." Quentin furrows his brow. "Isn't all shampoo basically the same, though?"

" _Isn't all—_ " Eliot cuts off, taking an actual step back like he's reeling from the mere thought, then marches past Quentin to reach into the shower and move his shampoo to the highest shelf. "There, it's out of your reach and we never have to discuss this again."

"Ha ha," Quentin deadpans. He's pretty sure he could reach it if he really tried, but Eliot seems to read his thoughts and shoos him out of the bathroom before he can make an attempt.

Halfway out the door, he pauses, realizing something pressing. "Wait, um. Where are my clothes?"

"From yesterday? In the laundry," Eliot says. "Everything you didn't wear to bed had blood on it. Mine, too."

"Ah." Well, the robe is soft and warm anyway, and it even has pockets. Quentin can probably handle keeping it on for a wash cycle or two.

"Yeah, kind of grim. But it won't take long," Eliot assures him. "And for what it's worth, this is a good look for you. Cozy chic."

"Thanks," Quentin says, rolling his eyes. "This probably cost more than everything I was wearing put together. I can't believe you stole it."

"Liberated," Eliot corrects, tugging on one end of the waist tie. "It was wasted in that hotel room, okay? I knew it had a higher purpose."

Quentin laughs, but lets Eliot draw him closer. "Oh, yeah? Like what?"

"Like keeping you warm until I come take it off," Eliot murmurs, and leans down to press a soft kiss to his mouth. "Ten minutes."

With that, he pulls back and closes the door. Quentin stands in the hall until the sound of the shower turning back on reminds him that he probably shouldn't hover right outside. He heads back to Eliot's room to wait, and if he doesn't tie the robe very tightly so it's easier to slip out of - well, the only one who will know is Eliot, and Quentin is pretty sure they can keep it between them.

**Author's Note:**

> (me showing the frottage scene to my beta) You may read it... Once  
> join me on the [twitter](http://twitter.com/marcelucien_) or [tumblr](http://aniallating.tumblr.com/) where i'm gay and mad all the time! also not that i'm writing a third part but wow i can't believe mike dies in the third part? anyway


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